Archive for September, 2011

This Could Lead To A “National” Security Breach

 

Call me old-fashioned, Mr. Security Man, but I think this is one of those times where you want to be very clear about what you mean.  All employees must display their photo ID badges, or all employees “must” display their photo ID badges?  Seems like there’s wiggle room here, with those quotation marks.  I mean I’m new, and even I know that all visitors definitely have to present identification & obtain a destination pass.  This isn’t up for debate.  Not trying to be a “Nitpicky Nancy” here, but unless “Must” is a direct quote from someone important, while the remainder was written by some B-level intern, the quotation marks need to go.

I can’t believe this made it past the editing table.  Someone had to have caught this before it was actually engraved into metal.  Perhaps a rogue signsmith thought it would just be funny to see what happened, security-wise, as a result of this signpost.  Do your other security measures include “not” allowing people to release poisonous snakes into the building?  Or “refraining” from lighting birthday candles in the boiler room?  No one is allowed to “run” around naked.

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How Many Of These Stores Do You Think There Are?

I realized that this is my new favorite genre of Hispanic.

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Words I Realized: Psmatiste

 

Psmatiste [smuh-tee-stey], n – sketchy liquid

I can’t even begin to fathom what could have caused this fluorescent green liquid to end up in this pothole, but that may just be because I can’t think of too many fluorescent liquids.  I would probably rank this melted glowstick-like broth as the last thing on earth I would want to drink.  And if you stop for a minute and think about all the other nasty fluids that you can introduce to your body, you would realize just how significant that statement was.

In an effort keep his freshly laundered trousers clean, Dean spread his legs while sitting on the toilet to keep his pants elevated and clear of the murky, noxious psmatiste that pooled around the base of the commode in the train station bathroom.

Wait, psmatiste?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?

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Derek Heterosexual

I realized that Derek Jeter’s publicist must be fending off some rumors about his social life.

We get it, Derek. Message received.

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Special Thanks To Evan Hoberman for taking excellent iPhone screen shots.

A Germophobe’s Guide To Handling Life: It’s Like A Bulletproof Vest, Only Not At All

Why the hell do we even bother constructing these “protective” coverings?  I mean, I’m totally guilty of this; in fact, I do it every time I have to sit on a toilet seat in a public lavatory.  But it’s completely ridiculous.  Oh damn, a thin paper forcefield… take that, infectious bacteria!

Presumably, we lay down this porous paper shield because we think that there are some kind of dangerous microbes on the toilet seat that can give us diseases simply by making contact with our butt skin.  While I can’t verify whether or not that’s true, I pose this question to you: do you really think that some bacteria or virus that’s dangerous enough to infect us solely through direct ass cheek contact would actually be stopped by a permeable layer of toilet paper?  We’re not even talking about the sturdy, durable bath tissue I purchase for my sensitive rear end.  We’re talking about public shitter toilet paper.  You know the stuff… meat-and-potatoes TP, probably of the sandpaper variety.  Drops of water soak right through this thing, yet we build these disposable barricades because for some reason, we’ve convinced ourselves that this is the best line of defense against contracting tuberculosis.

Regardless, next time I use a public restroom, I bet I’ll still make one.

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Familiar Faces: Finding the Straw Face

“Wait a minute… where’d my straw go? I definitely wasn’t drinking directly from the cup.  At least I don’t think I was drinking directly from the cup,” thought Gregory as he struggled pathetically to find his cocktail straws while chatting with the girl in the corner of the bar.

Good thinking, Gregory.  Wouldn’t want to look stupid by breaking eye contact to look for your straw… Much better to hook it with your fleshy pink tongue.  Oh good, you missed again, and now you’re just waving your tongue back and forth trying to secure the straw, and she’s right there, watching the whole thing.  Real smooth.

Okay, she has now stared at your entire tongue for a semi-extended period of time.  Remain calm.  If she’s still talking to you, she probably liked what she saw.  You, my friend, have an attractive tongue.  I mean, I don’t think your tongue is that good looking, but she clearly does.

This is the “Finding The Straw” Face.

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Am I A Lucky Guy Or What?!

I realized that my dry cleaners takes extra care with my clothing.  I mean, look.  They put disposable garment hanger covers on my clothes.  That makes my dry cleaners special, right?  Because other dry cleaners usually just roll your clothes into a ball, submerge them in hummus, and then shove them into a burlap bag filled with aggressive bees for you to take home.

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Words I Realized: Ananta

Ananta [uh-nahn-tuh], n, plural ananta – abandoned articles of clothing found in the street

I wonder how this guy didn’t realize he left his sandal in the middle of the street.  I suppose he just walked home with one sandal?  I hope he’s alive.  I guess it comes down to this — did the owner of this article of ananta place it here intentionally, or did he lose it?   Ready to have your mind blown?  Think about this – I wonder if he still has the other sandal or if it’s stranded elsewhere.  And just for the record, articles of ananta always look hard, don’t they?  Like if I were to kick one, it would maintain its shape and have a texture akin to that of a plaster cast.  Might even hurt my foot.  In conclusion, if it feels like one of your bare feet is touching the ground directly, you might be missing a sandal.

“Look at all that ananta,” remarked Ferguson, upon noticing a glove, three non-matching socks, and a pair of booty shorts nestled against the curb.

Wait, ananta?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?

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At This Point, You Might As Well Just Keep It Going And See How Much You Can Accumulate

I realized that you shouldn’t park under a tree during pigeon mating season.  That is a lot of bird excrement.

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Just Keep Placing One Foot In Front Of The Other…

 

I don’t get it.  This girl was fine a few blocks back.  She was walking at a totally normal pace, and therefore I was also able to maintain an acceptable walking speed.  But she just met up with her shitty boyfriend with the prominent John Travolta butt-chin, and now they’re barely moving.

Riddle me this… Why is it that a man and woman, both normally of reasonable walking speed, will slow their pace when walking together as a couple?   They hold hands and saunter. They babble about who brought the best appetizer to last night’s potluck dinner.  They graze genitals.  What the hell?  All these things can be done while still maintaining the walking speed they had before they met up.

I get why they’d want to walk side by side, obviously.  But do they have to place their mediocre selves right in the middle of the sidewalk?  Now I don’t have room to execute a traditional lateral sidewalk pass, so I have to creepily linger like four feet behind them, waiting for my opportunity to break free.  I need some frozen yogurt, and these chumps are acting like Pinkberry doesn’t close soon.

But it does close soon.

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I Knew Those Pilates Classes Would Come In Handy Someday

I know exactly what you’re thinking, and you are correct.  Yes, when I’m down there in the squatting position, the denim covering my male under-barrel is taut like Kevlar.  But this is a serious situation. What, like you’ve never bootydanced in order to break in a freshly-laundered pair of dungarees?  Let’s be real here, I need to stretch these bad boys out.  Make room for the old under-barrel.  I’m going out later and do not want to end up looking like this guy when the bill comes.

So instead, I’m just gonna do this in the privacy of my own home, because these pants are tight as fuck, and I want me some well-ventilated thighs.

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Single-Purpose Knives

I realized in the world of plastic cutlery, the spoon clearly has more uses than forks or knives.  I mean, obviously.  Come on, you can eat soup with them.  And you can, ya know, paint with them and stuff…

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Words I Realized: Tollip

tollip [tah-lip], v, n – a piece of wrapper left atop a drinking straw

I don’t know about you, but I don’t really wanna suck on a straw that someone squished between their thumb and index finger, and I know someone did just that because it’s the only way to create one of these appendages.  It’s the same as me not wanting to eat a bag of gummi bears that you were sitting on inside your back pocket.  I know fecal particles probably didn’t manage to migrate through your boxers, jeans and plastic wrapper and into the bears.  But there’s just something about your butt warmth all absorbed in those gummi bears that’s gross.  And it’s the same thing here. But then again, I know the guys at this restaurant need to be reminded to wash their hands after using the bathroom, so it’s to nice know my waiter has not fondled my straw without a prophylactic.

 Tom blew his tollip onto Theresa.  She blew him back.

Wait, tollip?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?

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Did He Tell You Himself?

I realized that some seminars are a bit too specific.  Immediately following this lecture will be another one entitled “What Winston Churchill Would Choose To Eat While Traveling in Mexico If His Lactose-Intolerant Mother Joined Him For Dinner One Night”.

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Might As Well Teach Them Calligraphy Too, While You’re At It

When you’re a kid, you think that the entire world is one crisp line of rich, sweet-smelling cursive. You look forward to learning cursive.  You talk about it with your friends. You think you’re going to be granted entry to some secret society of people who can communicate in code.

Well, it isn’t that special.  No one actually ever uses it.  The only time I do is when I’m signing something.  And even that isn’t really cursive.  It’s more like a half-assed scribble that vaguely resembles my name written in cursive.  A cursive capital Q look like the number 2?  Come on, inventor of cursive.  That’s a bit of a stretch.

We shouldn’t waste valuable third-grade class time on cursive.  Just learn to sign your name, eat some applesauce, write “BOOBIES” on your calculator, and call it a day.

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